


Maybe I'm Not Too Young to be a Cowboy

by bsmog



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Jack is kind of a hermit, Kent is a good dude, M/M, Reconciliation, but it works for him, hockey injuries, lovers to friends to lovers again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:43:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9455525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bsmog/pseuds/bsmog
Summary: Kent is 34 years old. He's won everything there is to win in the world of hockey (just not this year, let's not talk about it, okay?), but ever since an injury took Jack out of hockey altogether, there's something missing on the ice. What the hell is the offseason for if not to find out what that is?If only anything was ever that easy where Jack Zimmermann was concerned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I don't even know. I blame Mat Kearney and a particularly inspiring group text that has something to do with jubles for this. 
> 
> Ngozi owns all characters referenced herein except the food critic. I'm just playing in the sandbox.

“Whoever the fuck says long drives are relaxing is full of shit. Jesus.” Kent grumbles to himself as he eases his car down a long, winding, unpaved drive that looks like it just might end in the ocean. “I’m too old for this shit.”

He’s been driving for hours, weaving north for what feels like forever up the coast through New Hampshire and into Maine. It isn’t that the drive hasn’t been peaceful–it has–or that the scenery isn’t beautiful–it is–or that the time to think hasn’t been welcome. 

Well. Maybe that last part isn’t quite so definite. Kent tends to get himself into trouble when he lives too far in his own head. 

With so many hours alone with his thoughts, he’s nearly turned around a half-dozen times. It isn’t like anyone would know if he did, he’s not expected at the little house overlooking rocky cliffs and unsettled waters beyond. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be welcome. 

What he  _ does _ know is that there’s only one person in the world who will come for him the day the bottom drops out of his world, whenever that day comes. Kent wasn’t there for Jack when the bottom dropped out the last time, even if it was half a lifetime ago, and even if he’d wished he had been, and even if everything about this time and place and  _ them _ is different now. But he’s older now, and maybe a little smarter, or a little dumber, depending on how you look at it. 

He sighs and lets his forehead rest on the steering wheel for a minute, feeling the salty breeze drift up from the beach and across his face. 

“What the fuck am I even doing?” he mumbles under his breath as he climbs out of the car and winces. 

At 34, he’s got a whole handful of championship rings with two different teams, a string of records and a spot all but guaranteed for him in the hall of fame one day. He’s also got old injuries and stiff joints and achy muscles that don’t bounce back like they used to, and he wonders, not for the first time, if the chorus of cracks and pops from his knees and ankles and right shoulder aren’t just the voice of time telling him to hang up his skates. 

If there’s one thing that’s been made painfully clear in the last year, it’s that it’s better to hang them up on his own terms than to have them taken off his feet for the last time while he’s unconscious on a stretcher in an ambulance.

He sighs again and makes his way towards the cottage, smiling a little in appreciation at the absolute picturesque beauty around him. Leave it to Jack to find an actual living photograph to run away to. He walks around the side of the house to the door and lifts his fist to knock, stopping just short of the wood when movement from near the water catches his eye.

And damn if his breath doesn’t catch in his chest, because there’s Jack Zimmermann, standing on a rock facing the ocean, wind ruffling his hair, just as handsome as he’s ever been, in spite of everything. Even from here Kent can see his face is red from the bite of the wind and the late spring temperatures. He’s stooped a little bit in a way that most people would think was more about hunching against the wind, but Kent sees a rough check against the boards in that hunch. He sees impact with the ice and a helmet skidding across the rink, and he hears the absolute silence of an arena waiting with a unified held breath for a sign of movement that never came. 

He sees the bowed shoulders of the greatest player in a generation speaking in quiet, now-unaccented tones, saying goodbye to hockey for good, because he can’t hold a stick anymore without tremors in his hand. And because the sight of the boards makes him flinch in a way that, he told Kent late one night, reminded him of another rink in another time, when he thought you could teach someone not to be afraid of checking with practice. 

He’d picked up the phone and called Eric that night, voice shaking as he apologized for assuming he could change something he didn’t really understand until so many years later. Kent still isn’t sure if that call was just about checking, or if it was about the years Jack and Eric spent together and the months they spent falling apart at the end. He’d felt a little privileged to be there while Jack spoke into the phone, words tumbling out like he’d been holding them in for years. In truth, he probably had been.

Jack was smiling when he hung up, a rare thing in those days. Kent had texted Eric later, just a few words. Nothing more than  _ I don’t know what you said, but thanks for helping him. _

And then another one a few seconds later, a little more honest and a little more vulnerable, but fuck it, they’re adults now. His ego is actually not as big as it was when he was younger. _ I don’t know how.  _

To his pleased surprise, he’d received a text back almost right away.  _ You’re helping him more than you know, just by being there. I’m glad you are. Wasn’t long ago he wouldn’t have let anyone be there. _

Kent’s still amazed that he’s friends with Eric Bittle after all these years, after their first meeting at that stupid Samwell party where he’d been such an ass, and after years of carefully-hidden envy of what Eric had with Jack. He’d bought Eric a drink not long after their breakup–a meeting of the Jack Zimmermann ex-boyfriends club, sadass party of two, he’d called it–but there was no malice in either of them that night. Jack was Jack. He was amazing and beautiful and completely in love with hockey. The thing that broke them was that Eric was– _ is _ –also amazing and beautiful, and way too  _ good _ to be anyone’s proverbial backup plan.

Kent shakes himself out of his memories. This isn’t why he’s here. Well, it sort of is, because a year after that night, that text from Eric and that press conference, he’s realized it’s not that  _ someone _ needs to come check on Jack. 

It’s that  _ he _ needs to. For everything Jack ever was to him, and for everything he should have been for Jack, if he hadn’t been 17 and afraid and high on life and success all at once.

He picks his way across the rocky expanse of the yard and down toward the water, careful to check his footing on every rock before he weights his feet. Last thing he needs is a broken ankle, even if it is the start of the offseason. 

“Wondered how long it’d be before they sent you,” Jack’s voice is raised above the wind as Kent approaches. 

Kent doesn’t bother to ask how Jack knew it was him; they’ve always known each other like this in one way or another. First on the ice, then in the darkness against wrinkled sheets. And most recently in a way that makes Kent think they’ve maybe grown up and into what they should have been all along, even if he can’t put a word to whatever that is. 

  
Plus, he knows his car was probably the loudest thing Jack’s heard out here. What can he say, he likes the classics, even if they do make more noise than the sleek new models he favored when he was younger. 

Kent negotiates the last of the rocks and steps up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Jack, looking out across the endless expanse of blue in front of them. Blue sky, blue water, the blue of Jack’s eyes if he turns his head. He doesn’t. It’s easier to stay grounded against endless sky and ocean than it is in those eyes. Always has been, and after 17 years, Kent’s pretty sure it always will be. 

He’s fine with that. 

“No one sent me,” he says after a minute. “Also hi yourself, Zimms, I’m fine, thanks for not asking. I see complete isolation has done wonders for your manners.”

Jack snorts. 

“Says the guy who’s trespassing on my property.”

“Says the guy who just drove four and a half hours out of Boston after driving from New York the day before to see how you are, asshole, because you don’t pick up your phone and some of us worry.”

He’s proud of himself for keeping his voice light, because there’s a strong undercurrent of truth behind the chirp. Seventeen years ago, Jack didn’t answer his phone and Kent had been right to worry. Maybe hadn’t worried enough, considering the days that followed. Seventeen months ago, Jack didn’t answer his phone because he was in surgery and no one had told Kent yet–why would they, really, but that wasn’t the point–and that old familiar feeling had rushed over him like a wave. 

Seventeen days ago–and isn’t all this numerical symmetry interesting–Kent’s season ended one game shy of the playoffs, and he started going back through old emails and texts and voicemails and realized he hadn’t spoken to Jack in weeks. Worse, neither had Eric, or Tater, or Shitty, or any of the other people Kent expected might have had a more recent digital Zimmermann sighting, and suddenly he was 17 again, dialing Jack’s number over and over and trying to talk himself out of some of the more hideous thoughts in his head. 

A cursory  _ Sorry, bad service up here _ came two days later, and after Kent finished what felt like a two-day long panic attack, he decided it was time to pay Jack a visit. 

Never mind that it took him two more weeks not to feel like a teenager looking across a locker room at the first boy he ever  _ liked _ and just go  _ talk _ to him. Jack always did have that effect on Kent. Probably always will.

Kent’s okay with that too. That feeling means Jack is alive and real and as well as can be expected, which is actually all Kent’s wanted since he hung up the phone with Bob Zimmermann the day after the draft, euphoria at being drafted cut clean by the knife edge of loss.  _ Please just let him be okay _ , he’d whispered over and over and over in the dark of his hotel room. 

That one wish has been on constant repeat in some part of his brain and his heart ever since.

“I texted,” Jack says, but Kent hears the slightest hint of apology in his voice. 

Kent shrugs. 

“Knowing you’re still breathing and knowing you’re okay are two different things,” he says. “Some things I have to see for myself.”

He looks at Jack now, because that was probably the most honest thing he’s said in a while, and that includes a lot of really serious conversations after Jack’s injury about retirement and options and what Kent thought Jack should do. 

Kent had been cautious then. Cautious with his advice–what the fuck did he know about telling the best hockey player in the league to retire?–and cautious with his feelings. He wasn’t ready to do this again. He just couldn’t lose Jack because he said something stupid. Not like this, not now that they were back on equal footing and Kent had come to grips with the fact that he’d always be a little in love with Jack Zimmermann, but only if he could  _ just be okay, please _ . 

So he’d been honest then, but careful. He’s done being careful now. He’s done with sleepless nights worrying that Jack’s not answering because he’s let himself waste away alone in Maine. And he’s done tiptoeing around Jack; he’s done that for too many years and he’s still here, hundreds of miles from home, because he couldn’t just put it out there before. 

Jack sighs. 

“Look, I…” he scrubs a hand through his hair; it’s cleanly cut, maybe even recently, Kent guesses, looking at the back of Jack’s neck. That’s good. It means Jack’s been out of this house, even a little. “I don’t know what to be, now. And every time someone calls, they…”

“Ask you what’s next,” Kent finishes, wincing. 

He’s only maybe one of the ten best players in the league, Stanley Cup wins and Conn Smythe wins and that one Art Ross he beat Jack out for just the once be damned. He’s good. Great, even. But he’s had amazing teams for so many years that he’s pretty sure he’d be a flop on a team with a basement record. 

Not like Jack, who could–and did–turn a team around from one of the worst in the league to a Conference finalist in a matter of a year and a Cup winner in the next. Not like Jack, who’s been living and breathing hockey since before he could talk, whose love affair with the game was enough to make the happiest married man envious. 

He’s Jack Zimmermann, hockey player. Only he isn’t anymore, and Kent’s hand twitches with  _ wanting  _ to reach out and touch Jack’s shoulder. 

He doesn’t. He’s the intruder here; in fact, he’s maybe the biggest reminder Jack could possibly get of what  _ isn’t _ anymore, at least professionally. 

“Look, Zimms,” he sighs into the wind. “I’m just a selfish bastard who doesn’t want to see you go back to…”

_ Where I can’t reach you. Where I can’t find you. Where I don’t know if you’re okay. Where I have to wake up and hope you’re waking up too, somewhere.  _

“It’s not like that,” Jack says,and Kent is inexplicably pleased at how even Jack’s voice is. “C’mon, let’s go inside. You can make dinner, since I assume you’re expecting to be fed.”

“I did drive four and a half hours up Highway 1 for your company,” Kent says, letting one side of his mouth quirk up. “Least you could do is give me a beer. And I could eat.”

“That’s a five-plus hour drive, Kenny,” Jack says, voice a little severe and a little fond all at once. 

Kent shrugs as they turn back towards the house. 

“Empty road and a convertible, man. I may be a responsible adult now and all that shit, but I’m no saint.” Jack laughs softly. The sound brings a flutter in Kent’s gut. “Besides, you know me,” he says. “I always do everything too fast.”

~*~

Kent  _ does _ cook dinner, because he’s a better cook than Jack, because this house has a kickass grill set up on the back deck, and because he needs something to do while he and Jack quietly dance around one another. They’ve always been good at that, at anticipating where the other one would be, both on the ice and off. But here, all these miles away from everyone else and everything else, it feels a little too charged–at least to Kent–and he needs something to keep himself occupied. Anchored.

Sane. 

“Not that I mind the dinner company,” Jack says once they’re seated, and Kent rolls his eyes a little because he’s pretty sure Jack  _ does _ mind the dinner company, but whatever. “But what do you want, Kenny?”

Christ. There’s no one else in the world who calls him that, and it makes his skin burn and his blood heat, even after all these years. 

He could be offended, because Jack really did cut to the chase, but Jack’s always sucked at social niceties. He takes a long pull from his beer bottle, making a quietly appreciative noise, because goddamn they brew some good beer in Maine, and sighs. 

“How are you?” he asks, scrutinizing Jack’s face. 

He looks tired, but not overly so. Sad, but no more than usual. Sunburned, which is a nice look on him. And worn, which is a little bit disconcerting. Actually, it’s a lot disconcerting, because they’re not as old as all that.

Jack shrugs.

“I’m fine.”

It’s so nonchalant that it’s forced, and Kent only barely keeps himself from snorting.  _ Don’t be fucking counterproductive, Parson _ .

“You know your poker face isn’t fooling anyone in this room, right?” he says instead. “C’mon, man. How are you really?”

Jack sighs. He pushes his mostly-empty plate to the middle of the table and rests his elbows on the empty space in front of him. He doesn’t say anything, and Kent doesn’t push, because this is more like the answer he was expecting. 

After a long, silent moment, Jack runs a hand over his face, sighs again, and looks up at Kent. 

“What do you want me to say? That a good day is one where my head  _ or _ my neck hurts, but not both? That I can feel the ghost of the ice under my feet and a stick in my hands first thing in the morning when I wake up, but I’ve fallen twice this month on my way to take a piss because I got up too fast and got dizzy? That I couldn’t watch you guys in the playoffs because I wanted to  _ hate you _ every time I saw you on tv? Is that what you want to hear? Because I’m guessing you’d rather I just say ‘fine’ and we can move on like we always have.”

Kent does snort this time, because  _ fuck him _ . If he’d ever been capable of moving on, maybe he wouldn’t be out here doing...whatever it is he’s doing.

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, not quite under his breath. 

No sense in hiding it; no one sent him here, no one asked him to come, not really. No one said  _ hey, Parse, go see if Jack’s still alive and well up there, we haven’t heard anything in awhile _ .

It was the opposite. All  _ hey, Parse, don’t worry man, he’s fine,  _ and  _ he’s keeping to himself, trying to sort through things,  _ and  _ we’ll go up later this summer when it’s warmer _ . And it was enough for all of them, but not for Kent. 

He tugs at the label on his beer bottle absently, focusing a lot harder than is strictly necessary on peeling back the damp paper. He’s not here to pick a fight, he’s just not sure Jack’s here for anything else just yet. 

“Look,” he says, standing and taking his plate and the empty bottle to the counter, going through the motions of rinsing his dishes and loading them into the dishwasher, because he’s nothing if not a good house guest. “I’m not going to pretend I’ve been where you are. But don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing up here. Trying to create some kind of one-man hell that you can hide out in instead of getting your head back on straight.”

“You don’t know anything about it.” Jack’s voice behind him is a quiet hiss, full of anger that Kent’s actually happy to hear. 

He turns back from the counter and wipes his wet hands on his jeans. He pats his pocket for his car keys, knowing full well now’s about the time he needs to find them. Maybe there’s a hotel somewhere nearby he can stay in, because he doesn’t think his body will allow him four and a half more hours behind the wheel of his car, much less the full drive back to New York and home which is where he’d really like to be when the inevitable post-Jack-malaise comes to call. 

“No,” he says, just as quietly, but without the hiss. He’s got no right to be angry here. “I don’t. I don’t know shit about what it’s like not to be able to do the only thing either one of us has been good at since we were kids. I don’t know shit about what you feel when you get up in the morning, or when you try to fall asleep at night, or what you were thinking on that rock before I drove in. I don’t know shit about anything in your head right now, because you won’t let me in.”

He huffs. Damn it. He’s  _ not _ going to get angry. He lowers his voice again, not quite knowing when it elevated to begin with. 

“But for fuck’s sake, I know  _ you _ like I know my own reflection, okay?” His voice  _ does not _ crack. “I’ve known you half my life. I know more than you think, and I…” He sucks in a breath. “I wanna know so much more than that.”

Jack is staring at him from the table, so still that Kent can see him breathing. He crosses the kitchen, stopping long enough to put a hand on Jack’s shoulder but not turning to look down into Jack’s face, because he doesn’t have the strength for Jack’s eyes anymore tonight. 

“I came ‘cause I miss you. I’m worried about you, okay? I don’t know how to come off the ice and not call you or text you, or look at your stats or your highlights on ESPN when I’m on the road. That’s what I know. I know I’m missing something. I know you are, too, and even though they’re not the same something, they’re still...yeah.”

He drops his hand. 

“Thanks for dinner,” he says. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

He’s out the door and in the driveway, running a shaky hand through his hair and swearing under his breath when the door opens behind him. 

“Hey,” Jack says, and Kent turns. “You can’t drive all the way back to the city in that thing this late, get back in here.”

Kent huffs. 

“I’ll have you know this car is a damn classic,” he says. “It’s more than capable of handling the road at night, and so am I. It was good enough for James Dean, it’s good enough for me.”

Jack lets the door close behind him, follows Kent down into the driveway, rests his hand on Kent’s arm so softly that Kent has to look down and make sure it’s really there. 

“James Dean died in a damn car crash, you asshole,” Jack says, and Kent can’t help but look a little incredulous that Jack Zimmermann even knows who James Dean is, much less how he died. “I’m in Maine, I do get Netflix.”

Kent just shrugs. Jack was right about James Dean, but it hadn’t been late at night, and Kent wasn’t planning on speeding (much) or doing anything fancy. If he’s really honest, he’s planning to drive the Spyder to the nearest town, find a hotel and sleep for two days. He’s still feeling the end of the season, and it’s quiet up here. He could do with some sleep. 

“I’m not here to piss you off,” he says. “And I sure as hell didn’t come up here to fight with you, so I’m going so we don’t keep it up.”

“Just come back inside, will you?”

“Zimms, I should go, we shouldn’t-”

“Kenny,” Jack’s voice is soft, all the edges are scraped away and he sounds like every good dream Kent’s ever had, “please? Stay?”

And oh, for  _ fuck’s sake _ . Jack has to know there’s no way Kent can do anything but what Jack asks when he uses that tone and that name. He has to. 

Kent lets his shoulders slump.

“We’re not done talking about this,” he says. 

“When are you ever done talking about anything?” Jack fires back, but Kent is undeniably pleased to hear a hint of a smile in his voice. 

Kent bumps Jack’s shoulder gently as he turns back towards the house. They  _ aren’t _ done talking about this, but they’re also not done  _ talking _ . Thank  _ fuck _ . 

~*~

They don’t talk about it any more that night; Kent has learned a thing or two from the PR wunderkinds he’s been working with all these years, and he steers their conversation from one safe topic to another. Jack’s parents, the kids’ organization Kent still sponsors in Vegas even though he’s been gone a few years now, the mental health foundation that bears Jack’s name and his parents’ annual gift (and one from Jack that seems not to be diminishing even without his NHL salary). Shitty Knight and Lardo Duan, who are married with twins who have learned the word “heteronormative” but not how to tie their shoes (“that’s what Vel-cro is for, brah,” Shitty’d said the last time he and Kent had a beer in Boston, and Kent had laughed so hard he’d hurt the next morning).

They carefully but not painfully do not talk about hockey, the Falcs, the Aces, the Rangers, their past relationship, or Eric Bittle. Kent’s quietly pleased at how much they  _ can _ talk about without treading on Jack’s open wounds, and he’s comfortably buzzed on Jack’s good Scotch and nearly asleep on Jack’s very comfortable couch by the time the room settles into quiet. 

“The guest room is made up,” Jack says, standing and making a pained face as he stretches. “Let me know if you need anything, or just go looking.”

Kent nods and sucks in a deep yawn. 

“We’re still talking about this, you know that.” 

It’s not a question, and Jack doesn’t take it as one. He also has the good sense not to pretend he doesn’t know what  _ this _ is. He just nods once. 

“Coffee’ll be on in the morning. I uh, I don’t run anymore, but old habits die hard. I’ll be on the beach if I’m not here.”

“You never did learn to appreciate lazy mornings,” Kent grumbles, but hey, he doesn’t have to get up and run in the morning, so Jack’s free to do whatever he wants. 

Jack shrugs. 

“Never saw the point.”

Kent squints at him as he turns toward the door to the guest room. 

“Think you might learn now?”

Jack looks at him for a long time. So long that Kent starts to think maybe he’d put some kind of unintentional invitation out into the ether, or that Jack was about to issue one himself. 

“I think I’ve got a lot to learn now,” he finally says. “G’night, Kenny.”

Kent watches him walk in the other direction, watches him close the door to the bedroom on the far side of the house, and then watches the door for a long moment to see if it might open again. 

When it doesn’t, he rubs his hand over his face, pressing on tired eyes and willing his brain to shut the fuck up and join the rest of his body in exhaustion. He shuts off the last of the lights in the living room and pads quietly to his own room.

“Night, Zimms,” he whispers back into the darkness. “Sweet dreams.”

~*~

There’s a note on Jack’s very fancy coffee maker when Kent shuffles into the kitchen the next morning.

_ Push me _ is scratched out in Jack’s angular scrawl with an arrow pointing to a barely-visible button on the bottom of the machine. Kent’s not typically all that good at doing what he’s told, but this is  _ coffee _ . Not-so-little-known secret in the NHL: Kent Parson is worthless without caffeine. 

He pushes the button. 

Some number of minutes and two cups of Jack’s  _ really _ good coffee later, Kent is standing on the back porch, watching the waves roll against the rocks below. Somewhere down the beach, a figure comes into view. Kent would know that figure anywhere, even if it’s moving a little slower than it used to be, and even if it’s still a bit of a blow not to see it jogging towards him instead of walking. 

He goes back into the kitchen to brew another cup of coffee, then walks down onto the beach and down the sand. 

“I figured you’d sleep the morning away,” Jack says as he comes into earshot. 

“Damn, man, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to chirp the guy who brings you coffee?” He hands his second cup over to Jack.

Jack lets one side of his mouth curve up, the Zimmermann approximation of an all-out grin in most cases. 

“Bits did. Never took.”

Kent sucks in a breath at Eric’s name, but Jack shrugs. 

“You said we weren’t done talking about things. Bits has to be one of those things, eh?”

Kent’s pretty sure he’s gaping. Like a fish out of water, even. Jack smiles again. With teeth, this time, and now Kent knows his mouth is just hanging wide the fuck open. 

“I’ve always been better in the morning. You know that.”

Kent does. Jack does everything better in the morning: talks, thinks, studies, skates. Fucks. His mind is clearer, he says. He’s said it to Kent dozens of times. Usually before Kent’s finished his coffee, the bastard. 

Still. 

“Okay,” he says. Slowly, like he’s approaching an animal for the first time. “Is that where you want to start? Eric?”

Jack sips his coffee and stares out at the water. 

“No,” he finally says. “Not really. I fucked that one up and I know it. But I’ve had more time to think about him than...y’know. Everything else.”

That’s true; Jack and Eric broke up before Jack’s injury, something that Kent privately thinks was both better and worse in the grand scheme of things. Better, because Eric–wonderful, big-hearted Eric–never would have been able to leave Jack once he got hurt. Worse, because it let Jack hide in a way he never could when he and Eric were together. 

“How is he?” Jack asks more quietly. Hopefully. 

Kent can’t help himself, he chuckles. 

“You know Eric,” he says, because well, Jack does. “Taking over the world, one baked good at a time.”

Jack huffs out a laugh.

“That’s maybe the best description I’ve heard in a long time,” Jack says. “Things are going well, then?”

“You could-”

“Call him, I know. Maybe I will. After we get done talking about things, whenever that might be.” 

Kent gets the feeling maybe he’s being chirped a bit. He’s fine with that. He’s also fine with the implication that maybe he’ll get to keep coming around for awhile, even if it is to keep trying to pull Jack out of his metaphorical turtle shell.

“Just...I’m asking you. For now?” Jack is steadfastly looking anywhere except at Kent, which Kent supposes is because he’s basically become the guy who asks one of his ex-boyfriends how the other ex-boyfriend is doing. 

To quote Eric Bittle,  _ lord _ .

“He’s good. He’s really good, actually. He’s going to France in a couple of weeks.”

“Vacation?” Jack asks, and Kent knows now how long it’s been since they’ve talked. 

“Baker-in-residence at a fancypants chalet resort or some shit,” he says, even though he knows exactly where Eric is going and for how long and for what, because he’d taken Eric out for a celebratory dinner when the invitation came for a visiting pastry chef at one of France’s most coveted inns.

“I...wow.” Jack says. “Wow, that’s uh.” He runs a hand through his hair and takes another sip of his coffee. “Good for you, Bits,” he murmurs under his breath, just loud enough that Kent can hear him.

“It’s a big deal,” Kent says, because it is, and because he’s goddamn proud himself. “He’ll be gone six months, I think, at least to start. There’ll be an option to continue, if they’re happy with him-”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Jack interrupts, then colors as the meaning of his words sink in. “Is, uh. Is he…y’know...is he seeing anyone?”

Kent’s not in the business of lying, not anymore, and he’s not in the business of sugarcoating things, either. He’d done that with Jack 17 years ago, and he still kicks himself for it. Maybe if he’d just…

Anyway. He nods and takes another drink of his coffee. They’re nearly back to Jack’s house, but their steps have slowed some the closer they get.

“He’s been seeing a restaurant reviewer for about six months,” Kent says, laughing softly at the ridiculousness that is Eric Bittle, professional pastry chef, dating one of New York’s toughest new critics. “They’re a good match, he’s a sweet guy. And he’s had to excuse himself from reviewing anything related to Eric. Says it’s too hard to be objective.”

Jack smiles. Kent can see sadness behind his eyes, but it’s wistful. Not hurt.

“He’s taking time off to go to France with Eric, which will either end in marriage or disaster, if you listen to Eric’s take. If they survive trying to pack for that long.”

“You talk to him a lot.”

It’s not a question. Kent shrugs.

“We live in the same city now,” he says. “New York is an easy place to meet up, especially when you’re talking about a guy who knows the food scene like we know our way around a rink. And he’s…”

“Familiar?” Jack asks.

“A good friend,” Kent says. 

“He was more than I ever deserved,” Jack murmurs. 

Kent steps closer to Jack, considering for a moment, then wraps an arm around his back, squeezing his arm. He doesn’t think he imagines Jack slumping into him just a little bit. 

“Maybe,” he says, because Eric Bittle is more than most mere mortals and all sad bastards like him and Jack deserve. “More than I deserve, too, which is about half the reason I didn’t try to get him to date me when you two broke up.”

Jack huffs and elbows Kent in the side, but he doesn’t move away. 

“What was the other half?”

“You didn’t deserve to have to see that, either.” Kent’s voice is suddenly serious. “Jesus, I know I can be a real asshole sometimes, but you’ve got to know I wouldn’t have put you through that, no matter how much I wanted a chance at-”

He stops and looks up at Jack, whose face suddenly seems a lot closer than it was before, and damn those eyes boring into Kent’s soul. He blinks and clears his throat and tries–miserably and spectacularly unsuccessfully–to look away. 

“You of all people deserve to have good things happen to you,” Jack almost whispers. “You’re the one who should have someone like him in your life.”

Kent sucks in a shuddering breath and inches a little closer to Jack, not looking for anything in particular, just letting Jack’s presence steady him.

“C’mon,” he almost-whispers back. “You know he’s not who I’ve ever wanted. Not really.”

Jack blinks, a thought flickering across his face so quickly that Kent almost misses it, and moves away. The sea breeze feels a little colder than it had a minute ago. Kent squints at Jack’s back as Jack suddenly turns to walk up the steps to the house.

“What the fuck?” he mutters, then shakes his head and bounds after Jack, taking the stairs two at a time and half-running through the door. 

“What the fuck?” he says again when he’s caught up to Jack in the kitchen. 

He can see lines of tension in the way Jack holds his shoulders as he rinses his coffee cup in the sink, can feel frustration or anger or  _ something _ radiating off Jack in waves. And yeah, okay, he should probably be a little more sensitive, but Jesus. 

“Look, man, I know you’ve been out here in the wilderness a while, but your mood swings are gonna give me fucking whiplash. What the hell’s the matter with you all of a sudden?”

“Did you come out here for a pity fuck?” Jack grits out. 

His voice is low and harsh, with all the edges it’d lost a few minutes before back with a vengeance. 

Kent blinks. 

“A...huh? You’re fucking kidding me, right? Is that what you think? That I came out here because I’m lonely and you’re fucking...vulnerable or broken or some shit, and I’d  _ use _ that to get you to let me fuck you?’

He can’t even be mad yet, he’s so flabbergasted. Honestly, in all the dozens of scenarios that ever played out in his mind about the way this weekend would go, he and Jack in bed together  _ actually _ hadn’t been one of them. Far more likely Jack would have slammed the door in his face when he showed up, or not been here at all, or…

Well. Anything but what Jack apparently believes, and yep, there’s some anger after all, because fuck that. They’re not fucking 17 anymore, and Kent’s got some tact and compassion, no matter what the press says. 

“You  _ just  _ said-” Jack starts, but oh, hell no. 

“I just _said_ I’ve always _wanted_ _you_ , you jackass. _You_. Not just to _fuck_ you, for fuck’s sake. Although I can’t fucking figure out why right now, because I want to fucking punch you in your perfect fucking face. _Jesus Christ_.” Kent scrubs both his hands over his face and sucks in a deep breath.

“Zimms,” he says, trying to calm himself down a little. Trying at least, maybe, to increase his ratio of appropriate words to uses of the word  _ fuck _ . “Jack. Look at me.”

Jack’s fingers tighten on the edge of the counter; he doesn’t turn around. Kent sighs and crosses the kitchen until he’s just behind Jack’s right shoulder. 

“Please?”

It’s not a word Jack’s used to hearing from him, he knows that. He uses it just as often as the next guy, now, but back when they were kids, neither of them were very good with it. Then again, they weren’t always very good with each other, either.

They’re not kids anymore, though.

Jack blinks and turns his head. Kent figures that’s as good as he’ll get, even if what he wants is for Jack to turn around, maybe even to let Kent actually hug him–Kent’s a bit of a cuddler, this is not news to anyone–but whatever. He’ll take it. 

“Look. I’m not going to stand here and bullshit you about this, okay? It’s probably no big mystery to you that I never quite-”

He gulps. Honesty is fucking hard, what the fuck?

“I miss you,” he says. 

“You always say that,” Jack murmurs. 

Kent lets half his mouth curve up, because of course Jack doesn’t get it. 

“Yeah. Well. I always miss you.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“Damn it, I’m trying to tell you I’ve never moved on, okay? Just because we... _ stopped _ ...um.” He ducks his head and sucks in another breath. “ _ I _ never stopped, okay? It’s not just the sex. Not for me.”

Jack  _ does  _ turn then, big, dumb, blue eyes wide and a little shocked. Kent would shake him if he could, because how the fuck did he not see it all along?

“I thought...you said you...Bitty?”

Christ. Good thing Kent has spoken Jack Zimmermann’s language all these years. 

He takes a chance and puts out a hand, just letting it smooth down Jack’s arm for a brief moment before he pulls it back. Jack doesn’t stop him, but he doesn’t pull away, either. 

“Eric’s a catch,” Kent says, looking at the place his hand had just been. “And he gets me. Probably better than anyone in the world. But we’re all wrong for each other. Too much in common.”

“How-?”

Kent snorts. 

“He knows what it’s like to love you and not be able to stop, even when we both know better. And if you say one word about pity right now I really will punch you in the face, just shut up and let me finish.”

Kent glares at the pinch that’s forming between Jack’s eyes, but he tries a little to cut the harshness of his words and tone by reaching out to take one of Jack’s clenched fists. He methodically unfolds each of Jack’s fingers one by one, then let his own trace the lines on Jack’s palm. Jack still doesn’t pull away. 

He’ll take it. 

“You’re not broken,” he finally says, after what feels like an eternity. “This thing, what happened to you, it sucks. Shit, it more than sucks, I cried for two days when they said you were done, and it wasn’t even me that got hit. But you’re more than hockey. You always have been, but you never wanted to see it. Eric and I, we’ve always seen it, and we’ve always loved you for it, in our own ways. You just…”

He sighs and drops Jack’s hand and finally works up the courage to look up into Jack’s eyes. 

“You didn’t want to see it, before. I’ve been waiting for you to see it since before the draft. But that’s been a lot of years ago now and I’m tired of waiting, so I guess I’m showing it to you.”

Jack’s eyes are still wide, but the pinch is gone between them. 

“Is that why you came?”

It’s amazing how the same question Jack asked him not 10 minutes ago sounds completely different now. A lot less hurt and a lot more  _ something else  _ in five little words.

Kent tries not to hope too hard about that  _ something else _ . He shrugs, going for nonchalant and knowing he’s failing miserably. 

“No. Not really. I came for all the reasons I told you last night. I really have been worried about you, and you know how I get once I start thinking about something.”

Jack huffs a soft laugh.

“Like a stubborn jackass until you get answers?”

“I prefer persistent, thank you.” Kent grins. “Look, I’m as surprised as you to be standing here having all these  _ feelings _ all over your kitchen, because I’ve had them for a long time but I figured I’d never actually  _ tell _ you about them. But Jesus, you thought I-”

Jack shakes his head. 

“I didn’t. Not really. I’m sorry about that, I just...” He shrugs. “I’m not so good with my reactions lately. But I didn’t really–I know you better than that, Kenny. You’re not the only one who knows us as well as your reflection.”

_ Us _ . Kent has to suppress a shiver, because if he’s really honest, that’s the one thing he did allow himself to fantasize about, just for a minute, on the drive up the coast. Christ, he wants to be part of an  _ us _ , but not just for the sake of it. He wants to be half of  _ this _ us, which is what he’s wanted since he was 17 and didn’t know the fucking difference.

“I don’t know who I am without hockey,” Jack whispers. 

His head is down; Kent doesn’t really have to guess too hard to figure out why, but tears aren’t the worst thing he’s ever seen on Jack. He reaches out and prods softly at Jack’s chin, forcing him to look back up. 

“You’re Jack fucking Zimmermann, that’s who. You’re no different than you ever were. You didn’t play right away after your OD, it didn’t mean there wasn’t any hockey in your life. So you don’t have a slapshot they have to use a radar gun on anymore, so what? There are kids all over the place who would fall all over themselves to have Jack Zimmermann as their hockey coach. Or league ref. Or the guy who shows up to games and tells the hovercraft parents to shut their yaps and let their kids play.”

That gets a smile from Jack that Kent wants to kiss onto his face permanently. 

He doesn’t. Not yet. Barely.

“I know for a fact there are farm teams that would take you in a coaching position now, and there’s some rumors floating around that there are a couple teams in the League that wouldn’t send you away if you called; you’d be a hell of a coach and you know it and so do they. 

“And that’s just on the ice. I’ve seen your pictures, Jack, you could spend a year–fuck that, a decade–turning them into a hell of a coffee table book if you wanted. Or there’s commentating, or you could call games, hell, ESPN is probably salivating over the possibility of getting your face in front of a camera. Or-”

“You’ve thought a lot about this,” Jack says, surprise lacing his voice.

“I, uh, yeah. I figured when I came up here I’d have to give you some kind of pep talk, so I’ve been keeping a list-”

“You keep a list.” 

Kent nods. 

“Of things I could do now that I can’t play hockey anymore.” 

Kent nods again. 

“You spend enough time thinking about me that you had to make a list of jobs I can do now that  _ hockey player _ is in past tense on my resume.”

Kent folds his arms over his chest, because he can’t tell if he’s being chirped, or if Jack thinks he’s creepy as fuck. If it’s the latter, he’s gonna need some armor. 

“It’s not like I was gunning for you to get hurt, it’s just that since you went down, I figured you’d need to find something to do eventually. I know how you are when you don’t have anything to do and- _ oh. _ ”

Jack kisses him.

And god, it’s better than he remembers, which probably has more to do with age and experience and patience than anything, but  _ still _ . 

It’s over almost as fast as it begins, little more than Jack’s lips pressed softly against his, Jack’s breath warm on his cheek, his nose brushing against Kent’s as he pulls away. 

“Sorry,” Jack whispers. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed, you just-”

“For the love of god, please shut up and do that again,” Kent breathes, uncrossing his arms and taking a hold of Jack’s t-shirt to pull him closer. 

Jack’s arms slide around Kent’s waist and they’re both smiling and a little red-faced, inches apart.

“Yeah?” Jack asks, then leans in and presses another feather-light kiss to Kent’s mouth. 

“Yeah.” Kent says into the end of that kiss and starts the next one, slowly, softly. 

Carefully. All the things they weren’t to each other the last time they did this. 

It used to be that Kent would try to pour every ounce of feeling into kissing Jack, try to say all the things he couldn’t put into words as a teenager in the ferocity of his kisses and touches. It’s instinct to do the same thing now, even all this time later, because Jack’s lips on his and Jack’s hands on his back feel all at once different and the same. 

He doesn’t, though. Partly because he really has learned a little patience in half a lifetime, and he likes kissing for the sake of it. He  _ really _ likes kissing Jack for the sake of it, it turns out. 

But mostly–and he smiles against Jack’s mouth as he realizes it–because he’s actually said it all in the course of the last half hour or so. 

“What?” 

Jack doesn’t move his mouth away, just brushes the word against Kent’s lips in a huff of shared breath. Kent’s smile grows, but he follows suit. 

“‘t’s nice.”

Jack’s lips curve into a smile too, and he does move his face away just the tiniest bit. Kent would protest, but he’s still got one hand in Jack’s shirt and the other wrapped around the back of Jack’s neck, so really, no one’s going anywhere. Not to mention Jack’s hands, which have somehow slid up under the hem of Kent’s shirt and are warm and sold on his back. 

“Kissing?”

Jack leans in and presses his lips against Kent’s jaw, and okay, he was doing fine right up until that happened, but now his breath catches and he bites his lip.  _ Christ _ , that feels good. 

“Mmmm,” he says, only half remembering the question as Jack sucks lightly at the skin on his neck, and what the fuck does it matter if he ends up with a hickey, they’re a zillion miles from anyone and hopefully not going anywhere any time soon. 

Except. Wait. 

“Jack. Hey, hang on.”

Even though he’s the one who put a stop to the proceedings, Kent’s pretty sure the light push to Jack’s chest that makes Jack lift his mouth from Kent’s neck is probably the biggest sacrifice he’s ever made in his life. But. 

That crease between Jack’s eyes is coming back again, and Kent sighs and moves the hand that was in Jack’s shirt up to smooth his thumb over it. 

“Too much?” Jack asks, then catches Kent’s hand and kisses his wrist. 

Kent rolls his eyes. Jack’s not playing fair. 

“Not enough, more like,” Kent says, and Jack grins. “ _ But _ .”

Jack sighs, but he’s still grinning. 

“But?”

Kent can’t help himself, he leans in and kisses Jack again, softly, and rests their foreheads together for a second as he pulls away. 

“But. Right.” 

His voice is breathy, goddamnit, which is ridiculous. He’s a grown man for god’s sake, it isn’t like he’s never kissed anyone. 

Still.

“We’re not done talking about this?” Jack’s voice is also a little breathy, which makes Kent feel a little better. 

Kent shakes his head. Then nods. Shakes his head again. What the fuck is the question and goddamnit, Jack’s eyes are distracting.

“Kenny, look-”

Later, much later, Kent is going to have a talk with his own mouth, because his brain is saying  _ talk _ , but his mouth is saying  _ he called you Kenny, you should probably kiss him for that _ . Later. Not now. Now, more kissing.

“Okay,” Jack says and actually takes a step back a few moments and more than a few kisses later.

Kent frowns, but at least Jack’s hands are still on his back, so there’s only so far he can go. 

“Okay,” he says again, still a little ragged and god, that’s sexy. “Since you’re still kissing me, I’m guessing you’re not saying stop?”

Kent rolls his eyes again and tries to get some semblance of coherent thought streaming through his brain before Jack goes on. It’s a hell of an effort, especially when every fiber of his body is screaming for  _ more kissing right the fuck now _ . 

“Yeah, okay, so look. You’re sort of right and sort of wrong about me not being broken, but I know I don’t have to be, not all the time. I know I have options–more than I considered, thanks to you apparently.” Kent ducks his head, blushing a little, but Jack just uses that as a chance to press his lips to Kent’s forehead, and now blushing _a little_ has become blushing _like crazy._ “But I haven’t made peace with any of this yet. You have to know that. I’ve got new demons to carry my old baggage, and it makes things…hard. I’m not always-”

Kent tightens his grip on Jack’s collar as Jack trails off, leaving that last sentence unfinished. He’s going for reassuring, although he’s not sure how well he’s managing it. Luckily Jack’s spoken Kent Parson’s language for years, too, and he smiles softly and leans his head to brush against Kent’s fingers at his neck. 

Kent lets out a long, slow breath before he answers.

“I’m not asking you to pin a smile on your face and pretend you aren’t hurting. I just...you don’t have to do this by yourself. If you don’t want to, anyway.”

Jack looks at him for a long time; Kent is frankly proud of himself for not dropping Jack’s gaze, because honestly, this must be what it feels like to have someone bore a hole straight through you and see everything between. Even if his eyes are warm and soft and there are crinkles starting to show around them. 

“Are you offering?”

Kent would glare, but Jack’s face is so...he doesn’t even know the right word. Warm. Peaceful. Hopeful? Hope isn’t a look he’s seen much on Jack’s face over the years. The realization is like a kick in the gut, softened only by the fact that he might be seeing it now.

“I’m always offering. I think I just made that pretty clear, what with the whole confession of love thing. You accepting?”

He goes for flip and knows he’s failing, but halfway through saying it, he realizes he didn’t actually ever say  _ I love you _ in the middle of all that. He supposes this is one of those things that shouldn’t rely on implication, but the words are stuck in his throat all of a sudden.

“Do you still think you shouldn’t?” Jack asks softly, hesitantly, like Kent’s answer is the difference between breathing and not.

“I...what?”

“You said you and Bits both knew what it was like to love me, even when you knew you shouldn’t. Do you still…?”

Kent can’t help himself, can’t help the fond smile that breaks across his face as he looks up into Jack’s worried eyes. Leave it to Jack to tee it up for him so nicely. To dislodge the words where they were stuck in his throat, cutting off his air. 

“I think I’ll love you for as long as I know you,” he says without even thinking about the words, and there they go, out into the world and it doesn’t even hurt. “It’s part of who I am, now. I might as well wear a sign. ‘Hi, my name is Kent Parson, I play hockey, have an inappropriate sweet tooth, swear too much, and love Jack Zimmermann.’ Whaddaya think? It’s got a nice ring to it, huh?”

Jack’s eyes are wide, but he’s not pulling away, so Kent figures he might as well keep going.

“Look, here’s the thing, before you go trying to doubt me. I don’t doubt myself. I’m not 17 anymore. I’m not even 27 anymore. C’mon, man. I’m a fossil in hockey years. I’ve been doing the same job–and doing it really fucking well–for half my life. I’m pretty solid in who I am and what I want and who I care about, and even if you’re never gonna love me back, I won’t regret it.”

He stands there, holding Jack’s gaze, their mouths close enough that he can feel Jack’s breath on his face. He’s still smiling, because goddamn if he doesn’t feel lighter than air for the first time in a really long time. 

He loves Jack. He loves Jack and it’s totally okay, and now Jack knows. And  _ that’s _ totally okay, too, which is a bizarrely liberating experience. 

“Christ, Kenny…”

He looks so floored, Kent almost feels badly for being so  _ open _ . He did kind of spring all this on Jack; hell, he’s kind of sprung a lot of it on himself. It just feels kind of good now that it’s out there.

“Before you ask, I didn’t come here for this, either. Some big Confession of Feelings thing to back you against the wall or anything, okay? I didn’t plan it out much, I just wanted to see you. The rest of this...well. Just felt right, y’know? After everything?”

He shrugs and ducks his head.

“How would we even-?” Jack’s voice catches and he huffs. “You play for the Rangers. You’ve got years of good hockey left in you if you want them. And I’m…”

He pulls his hands back away from where they’ve been resting on Kent’s back and holds them out, palms up, pleading. 

“You’re what? You’re hanging out in Maine learning to fish and allowing yourself time off for the first time in your life? You’re reevaluating your options? You’re having a fucking midlife crisis?” 

Kent rubs his hands over his face. God, he loves this stubborn bastard, but that’s really exactly what he is sometimes. 

Jack huffs and gently pries Kent’s hands from his face.

“If standing in my kitchen trying to figure out how to tell my oldest friend I’m still in love with him and logistics are what’s standing in the way of me begging him to take me back after all these years is a midlife crisis, then yeah. I guess I’m having one of those. Think I ought to call my therapist, or can we work this one through together?”

Kent will deny it later, and Jack will chirp him endlessly, but he chokes on his own spit so hard he starts flailing and coughing in a  _ very _ un-smooth way. 

A very un-smooth way not made easier by the fact that he’s not sure if he’s laughing so hard he’s crying, or if he’s just crying, or maybe it’s just a little of both.  _ I love you _ wasn’t something they said back then, all those years ago. They never said enough, and that’s just another on the long list of things Kent’s spent the better half of his adult life wondering about.

“You…”

Jack shrugs. 

“I wasn’t good with words back then.”

Kent’s gripping Jack’s shirt so hard at this point he’s sure he’s going to put holes in it, but he’ll be fucked if he’s letting go. 

“You’re not always so good with them now, but if you wanna maybe say just those ones again, I’ll let that slide?”

He doesn’t mean it to be a question. He doesn’t mean it to sound just this side of pleading, either, but  _ holy fuck _ , he’s imagined this moment so many times it’s ridiculous. His fantasy never ends happily, though, because he always catches himself remembering that this is something he can’t really have. 

But he’s standing in Jack’s kitchen, fists clenched in Jack’s shirt, Jack’s hands still warm and solid against his back, and Jack just said…

“I guess I’ve heard midlife crises are supposed to include blondes and convertibles,” Jack says with a smile. “I just get to be in love with mine while I’m at it.”

“For the record,” Kent breathes, trying to decide what the fuck to do next because what he wants to do is  _ everything _ , “this  _ also _ isn’t why I came here.”

Jack is still smiling. 

“Still worth the trip, though?”

“You’re a real jackass, you know that?” Kent is smiling too, and he lets go of Jack’s shirt to slide his arms around Jack’s back, pulling them together.

“You love me anyway.”

It isn’t a question, but Kent nods. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”

~*~

It turns out a lot of things are different for them than they were all those years ago. For example, Kent is now just as content to sit on Jack’s kitchen counter with Jack standing between his knees kissing the breath out of him as he would be to drag Jack off to bed and do unspeakable things for the next 20 or so hours. Or let Jack do unspeakable things to him. He’s not fussy.

And to be honest, he does still want to do that, but he doesn’t want to fuck this up by moving too fast or doing something wrong. That terrifies him in a way he hasn’t been since he and Jack had fumbled their way through all this the last time.

At least this time, he supposes, he’ll be a little better at it. Experience is a good thing in these cases. 

But that isn’t all that’s different. He notices the strain in Jack’s shoulders when he runs his hands over them, and the tightness in Jack’s neck when he lets his fingers play in the hair at the nape of his neck. The difference now is that he’s pretty sure those are the telltale signs of a lot more pain for Jack before there’s less. He knows what head and neck injuries do to guys in the league, and he’ll be damned if he’s the reason Jack’s down with a migraine for two days just because he doesn’t want to stop all this kissing. Maybe ever. 

He’s also smart enough to know that rest now probably means more kissing later. So you know. Sometimes sacrifice can be self-serving, or so he tells himself.

“I don’t want to be too forward,” he little more than whispers into Jack’s mouth, because he can’t be bothered to pull away. “But this can’t be comfortable for you. D’you, uh, wanna lie down or something?”

Kent knows he’s onto something when Jack doesn’t laugh, he just lets his forehead wrinkle into a wince for a minute and then nods. Kent nods back and hops off the counter, proud of himself that he’s only a little dazed and can actually keep his feet under him. 

He takes Jack’s hand. 

“Lead on,” he says. 

Because really, he just knows Jack needs to lie down; the logistics aren’t something he’s getting into. He’s not going to be presumptuous and drag Jack to bed, or be overly cautious and go to the couch. 

“I don’t know if I’m up for-”

“Hey,” Kent squeezes Jack’s hand. “I’m really not here to have sex with you.” Jack snorts, and Kent grins sheepishly. “Fine. I’m absolutely here to have sex with you if and whenever that’s what you want, but I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t like to see you hurting, and I’m not gonna die of blue balls if you need a nap, or a shower, or to meditate or do yoga or whatever the fuck you do out here. I told you, I missed you.  _ You _ . Just don’t shut me out, that’s all I ask. Let me help?”

Jack shakes his head and smiles; it’s a thin smile, the kind Kent can see pain behind, but not the kind that used to precede too many pills with a double vodka chaser. Just regular, I-played-professional-hockey-and-it-kicked-my-ass pain. Kent knows that pain. Knows how to help Jack when he doesn’t want help, and knows how to listen and learn what does help when he does. 

He’s been there. He’ll be there again. Maybe next time though, he won’t be alone, and that warms him from head to toe.

“When did you become such a goddamn grownup?” Jack asks, pulling Kent towards the big, airy bedroom he’d closed himself in the night before. 

Kent snorts. 

“I’m still helpless at adulting,” he says with a wry smile, mostly because it’s a lie and they both know it, but he likes to pretend he never has to grow up. “Maybe I just figure playing along will get me in your pants.”

Jack huffs as he twists his hands in his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, and okay, sue Kent if his mouth goes a little dry, because Jack Zimmermann has been a specimen of a human being from the first time Kent laid eyes on him, and apparently everything else has changed, but not that. Jack catches him staring, because of course he does, and because really, Kent wasn’t trying very hard  _ not _ to stare. He crowds up against Kent, sliding his hands under the back of Kent’s shirt. Kent absolutely  _ does not _ whimper when Jack’s lips find the sensitive spot under his jaw–Jack discovered that spot 17 years ago, and apparently he’s got a damn good memory.

“Here’s a spoiler alert for you,” Jack murmurs against his neck. 

Kent would laugh at the Bitty-ism coming out of Jack’s mouth if he had his wits about him; no one else would have ever taught Jack the words  _ spoiler alert _ . But really, who needs chirping when you’ve got Jack Zimmermann’s teeth scraping your earlobe, anyway?

“I’m kind of a sure thing where you’re concerned.”

And okay, Kent grins a little at that, because he’s still got an ego the size of this house and he does like to have it stroked here and there. Oddly, it’s the swell of  _ oh fuck yes, I’ve still got it _ that brings him back to himself. 

“Thank fuck for that,” he rasps. “But for now, I think you probably should get some rest for whatever’s going on in here-” He taps lightly at Jack’s temple. “Because when that’s taken care of, we really ought to see just how sure a thing you really are.”

It takes them longer than is strictly necessary to crawl into Jack’s bed, probably because everything they do is interrupted by more kissing, but they finally make it. They move around one another like they always have, anticipating movements and settling in without a word, Jack’s head on Kent’s chest, arms and legs tangled so it’s hard to tell where one stops and the other begins. 

Kent’s pretty sure he could die happy right this moment. 

“Mmmm, maybe not,” Jack murmurs against his chest, and Kent realizes he’s spoken out loud. “Just got you back. Lot of catching up to do.”

“Jesus” Kent nearly chokes again. “You can’t say shit like that when you want me to go to sleep, I’m patient, I’m not a fucking saint.”

Kent can feel Jack’s smile against his skin. 

“No one would ever accuse you of that.” Jack sigh and burrows a little, and Kent reaches up to run his fingernails gently over Jack’s scalp, which earns him another, more peaceful sigh. Jack always had liked that. “That’s nice.”  

“Sleep, babe,” Kent whispers back, flushing a little at how easily the pet name rolls off his tongue. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

_ Every fucking day for the rest of my life if you’ll let me _ is on the tip of his tongue, but maybe that can wait for another day. 

He can feel Jack’s breathing start to even out, feel his muscles relax and give in to sleep. Jack’s never done a thing halfway in his life, and sleep is no different. He doesn’t linger on the edge of consciousness, doesn’t shift restlessly in the bed like Kent always seems to. He’s awake with one breath and dead to the world with the next; Kent’s always envied him a little, but he also loves to see Jack this peaceful. 

And so he watches. Watches and strokes Jack’s hair and runs his fingers over the still-pronounced muscles in Jack’s back and smiles at the ceiling until Jack’s breathing lulls him to sleep too, between one breath and the next. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
